Chaytor lay awake that night, brooding. He found himself on the horns of a dilemma, and all the cunning of his nature was needed to meet the difficulty and overcome it successfully. The scheme he had laid, and very nearly matured, had been formed and carried out in the expectation that the run of ill-luck which had pursued him on the goldfields would continue. But now the prospect was suddenly altered. Gold floated before his eyes; he saw the stuff in the claim they were working more thickly studded than ever with the precious metal; extravagant as were the calculations which Basil had worked out they were not too extravagant for his imagination, and certainly not sufficiently extravagant for his cupidity. There was no reason in the world why these anticipations should not be more than fulfilled. Fabulous fortunes had been realised on the goldfields before to-day--why should not the greatest that had ever been made be theirs? He was compelled to take Basil into this calculation. He could not work alone in the claim; a mate was necessary, and where should he find one so docile as Basil? With all his heart he hated Basil, who seemed to hold in his hands the fate of the man who had schemed to destroy him. Luck had changed and the end he had in view must be postponed, must even, perhaps, be ultimately abandoned. To turn his back upon the fortune within his grasp for a problematical fortune in the old country was not to be dreamt of. The bird he had in hand was worth infinitely more than the two he had in the bush--these two being Annette and Basil's uncle. The result of his cogitations was that the scheme upon which he had been engaged should remain in abeyance until it was proved whether the gold they had struck in their claim was a flash in the pan, or would hold out till their fortunes were made. In the former case he would carry out his scheme to the bitter end: in the latter he would amass as much money as he could, and then fly to America, where life would be almost as enjoyable as in England. It was hardly likely, if Basil discovered his treachery, that he would follow him for the mere purpose of revenge. "He is not vindictive," thought the rogue; "he is a soft-hearted fool, and will let me alone." Thus resolved, Chaytor waited for events. It is an example of the tortuous reasoning by which villainy frequently seeks to justify itself that Chaytor threw from his soul the responsibility of a contemplated crime, by arguing that the result did not depend upon him but upon nature. If the claim proved to be as rich as they hoped, Basil would be spared; if the gold ran out, he must take the consequences. Having thus established that circumstance would be the criminal, the evil-hearted man disposed himself for sleep.
He had not long to wait to decide which road he was to tread. During the week they learned that their anticipations of wealth were not to be realised. Each bucket of earth that was sent up from the shaft became poorer and poorer, and from the last they obtained but a few grains of gold. The following day they met with no better fortune; the rich patch was exhausted; the pocket in which they had found the gold was empty.
"Down tumble our castles," said Basil, with a certain bitterness.
"We may strike another rich patch," said Chaytor, and thought, "I will not wait much longer. I am sick of fortune's freaks; I will take the helm again, and steer my ship into pleasure's bay."
He went to the township, openly for provisions and secretly to see if there was any news from England. There were letters at the Post Office awaiting Basil Whittingham, Esq. Chaytor put them in his pocket without opening them, purchased some provisions, and set forth to rejoin Basil. He was more careful in his movements than he had ever been. He had a premonition that the unopened letters contained news of more than ordinary importance, and if he were tracked and followed now his plans would be upset and all the trouble he had taken thrown away. Basil and he were hidden from the world; no one knew of their whereabouts, no person had any knowledge of their proceedings. Should Basil disappear, who would suspect? Not a soul. Basil had not a friend or acquaintance in all the colonies who was anxious for his safety or would be curious to know what had become of him.
Midway between the township at which he had obtained Basil's letters and the claim which had animated him with delusive hopes the schemer halted for rest. He listened and looked about warily to make sure that no one had followed him. Not a sound fell upon his ears, no living thing was within hail. There are parts of the Australian woods which are absolutely voiceless for twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours. This one hour, maybe, is rendered discordant by the crows, whose harsh cries grate ominously upon the ear. At the present moment, however, these pestilential birds were far away, and satisfied that there was no witness of his proceedings, Chaytor threw himself upon the earth and opened the letters. The first he read was from the lawyers, who had already written to Basil in reply to the letters his false friend had forged. It was to the following effect:--
"Dear Sir,
"We write at the request of your uncle, Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, who, we regret to say, is seriously ill. He desires us to inform you that he has abandoned the intention as to the disposition of his property with which he made you acquainted before your departure from England. A will has been drawn out and duly signed, constituting you his sole heir. Ordinarily this would not have been made known to you until the occurrence of a certain event which appears imminent, but our client wished it otherwise, and as doctors happily are not invariably correct in their prognostications it may happen that you will yet be in time to see him if you use dispatch upon the receipt of this communication, and take ship for England without delay. To enable you to do this we enclose a sight draft upon the Union Bank of Australia for five hundred pounds, and should advise you to lose not a day in putting it to the use desired by our client. It is our duty at the same time to say that we hold out no hope that you will arrive in time. In the expectation of seeing you within a reasonable period, and receiving your instructions, we have the honour to remain,
"Your obedient servants,
"Bulfinch & Bulfinch."
There was another letter from the lawyers:
""Dear Sir,
"Following our letter of yesterday's date we write to say that we have been directed by your uncle Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, to forward to you the sealed enclosure which you will find herewith. We regret to inform you that our client is sinking fast, and that the doctors who are attending him fear that he cannot last through the week.
"We have the honour to remain,
"Your obedient servants,
"Bulfinch & Bulfinch."
Before unfastening the "sealed enclosure," Chaytor rose in a state of great excitement, and allowed his thoughts to find audible expression:
"At last! Here is the certainty. No more Will-o'-the-wisps. Fortune is mine--do you hear?--mine. Truly, justly mine. Who has worked for it but I? Tell me that. Would the idiot Basil ever have humbled himself as I did; would he ever have worked his old uncle as I have done? What is the result? I softened the old fellow's heart, and the money he would have left to some charity has fallen to me. Every labourer is worthy of his hire, and I am worthy of mine. Basil would never have had one penny of the fortune, and therefore it is my righteous due. At last, at last! No more sweating and toiling. The world is before me, and I shall live the life of a gentleman. There is work still to be done, both here and at home, andI will do it. No blenching, Chaytor; no flinching now. What has to be donemustandshallbe done. There is less danger in making the winning move than in upsetting the board after the game I have played. Hurrah! Let me see what the precious 'enclosure' has to say for itself."
He broke the seal, and read:
"My Dear Nephew Basil,
"My sands of life are running out, and before it is too late I write to you, probably for the last time. You will be glad to hear from me direct, I know, for your nature is different from mine, and your heart has always been open to tender impressions. When I cast you from me I dare say you suffered, but after my first unjust feeling of resentment was over my sufferings have been far greater than yours could have been. It is the honest truth that in abandoning you I abandoned the only real pleasure which life had for me; but my obstinacy, dear lad, would not allow me to take steps towards a reconcilement. It may be that had you done so I should still have hardened my heart against you, and should have done you the injustice of thinking that you wished to propitiate me for selfish motives. In these, as I believe them to be, the last hours of my life, I have no wish to spare myself; I can see more clearly now than I have done for many a long year, and my pride deserves no excuse. This 'pride' has been the bane of my life; it has sapped the fountains of innocent enjoyment; it has enveloped me in a steel shroud which shut me out from love and sympathy. You, and you alone, since I was a young man, were able to penetrate this shroud, and even to you I showed only that worse side of myself by which the world must have judged me. I did not give myself the trouble of inquiring whether the counsel I was instilling into you was true or false; I see now that it was false, and it is some comfort to me to know that your nature was too simple and honourable, too loving and sympathetic, to be warped by it. Early in life I met with a disappointment which soured me. There is no need to inscribe that page in this letter--a loving letter, I beg you to believe. It was a disappointment in love, and from the day I experienced it I became soured and embittered. I was a poor man at the time, and I devoted myself to the task of making money; I made it, and much good has it done me. With wealth at my command I set up two dark starting points, which I allowed to influence me in every question under consideration--one, money, the other human selfishness. These, with a dogged and obstinate belief in the correctness of my own judgment on every matter which came before me, made me what I have been. I had no faith, I had no religion; my life was godless, and the attribute of selfishness which I ascribed to the actions of all other men guided and controlled me in mine. You never really saw me in my true character. That I regarded money as the greatest good I did not conceal from you, but other sides of me, even more objectionable than this, were not, I think, revealed to you. The mischief I would have done you glanced off harmlessly, as the action you took in ruining yourself to pay your father's debts proved. You were armed with an shield, my dear lad, a shield in which shone the religious principle, honourable conduct, and faith in human nature. Be thankful for that armour, Basil; it is not every man who is so blessed. And let me tell you this. It is often an inheritance, and if not that, it is often furnished by a mother's loving teaching and influence. You had the sweetest of mothers; mine was of harder grain. I lay no blame upon her, nor, I repeat, do I seek to excuse myself, but I would point out to you, as a small measure of extenuation, that some of us are more fortunate than others in the early training we receive, and in the possession of inherited virtues.
"Basil, my dear lad, you did right in paying your father's debts, despite the base view I expressed of your action. Angry that a step so important should have been taken without my consent being asked, angry, indeed, that it should have been taken at all, I said to myself, 'I will punish him for it; I will teach him a lesson.' So I wrote you a heartless letter, informing you that I had resolved to disinherit you, and suggesting that you should return the money I had freely given you and which was justly yours. There are few men in the world who would have treated that request as you did, and you could not have dealt me a harder blow than when you forwarded me a cheque for the amount, with interest added. Your independence, your manliness, hardened instead of softened me; 'He does it to defy me,' I thought, and I allowed you to leave England under the impression that the ties which had bound us together were irrevocably destroyed. But the blow I aimed at you recoiled upon myself; your reply to my mean and sordid request has been a bitter sting to me, and had you sought to revenge yourself upon me you could not have accomplished your purpose more effectually. I have always lived a lonely life, as you know; since I lost you my home has been still more cheerless and lonesome; but I would not call you back--no, my pride stopped me: I could not endure the thought that you or any man should triumph over me. You see, my boy, I am showing you the contemptible motives by which I was actuated; it is a punishment I inflict upon myself; and I deserve the harshest judgment you could pass upon me. If my time were to come over again, would I act differently? I cannot say. A man's matured character is not easily twisted out of its usual grooves. I am as I have been made, or, to speak more correctly, as I chose to make myself, and I have been justly punished.
"But, Basil, if the harvest I have gathered has been worthless to me and to others, some good may result from it in the future. Not at my hands, at yours. You are my sole heir, and you will worthily use the money I leave you. I look forward to the years to come, and I see you in a happy home, with wife and children around you, and it may be then that you will give me a kind thought and that you will place a flower on my grave.
"I am greatly relieved by this confession. Good-bye, my lad, and God bless you.
"Your affectionate Uncle.
"Bartholomew Whittingham."
"Sentimental old party," mused Newman Chaytor, as he replaced the letter in its envelope. "If this had fallen into Basil's hands it would have touched him up considerably. The old fellow had to give in after all, but it was my letters that worked the oracle. The credit of the whole affair is mine, and Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham ought to be very much obliged to me for soothing his last hours." He laughed--a cruel laugh. "As for the harvest he has gathered, I promise him that it shall be worthily spent. He sees in the future his heir in a happy home, with wife and children around him. Well!--perhaps. If all goes smooth with the charming Annette, we'll see what we can do to oblige him. Now let me read the little puss's letter; there may be something interesting in it."
"My dear Basil" (wrote Annette), "I have something to tell you. Uncle Gilbert has discovered that we have been corresponding with each other, and there has been a scene. It came through aunt. The day before yesterday they went out and left me and Emily together. From what they said I thought they would have been gone a good many hours, and I got out my desk and began to read your letters all over again. Do you know how many you have written me? Seven; and I have every one of them, and mean to keep them always. After reading them I sat down to write to you--a letter you will not receive, because this will take its place, and because I had not written a dozen words before aunt came in suddenly, and caught me bending over my desk. Seeing her, I was putting my letter away (I never write to you when she is with me) when she came close up to me and laid her hand on mine. 'What is that you are writing?' she asked. 'A letter,' I replied. It was not very clever of me, but I did not for the moment know what other answer to give. 'To whom?' she asked. 'To a friend,' I said. 'Oh, you have friends,' she said; 'tell me who they are.' 'I have only one,' I said, 'and I am writing to him.' 'And he has written to you?' she said. 'Yes,' I said, 'he has written to me.' 'Who is this only friend?' she asked; 'do I know him?' 'Yes,' I said, 'you knew him slightly. There is no reason for concealment; it is Basil, my dear father's friend.' 'Oh,' she said, 'your dear father's friend. Is he in England, then?' 'No,' I answered, 'he is in Australia.' 'His letters should have been addressed to the care of your uncle,' she said, 'and that, I am sure, has not been the case, or they would have passed through our hands. How have you obtained them?' 'It is my secret,' I replied. Fortunately Emily was not in the room, and I do not think they have any suspicion that she has been assisting me; if they had they would discharge her, though I should fight against that. 'Your answers are evasive,' she said. 'They are not, aunt,' I said; 'they are truthful answers.' 'Are you afraid,' she asked, 'if the letters had been addressed to our care, as they ought to have been, that they would not have been given to you?' I did not answer her, and she turned away, and said she would inform Uncle Gilbert of the discovery she had made. I did not go on with my first letter to you when she was gone; I thought I would wait till Uncle Gilbert spoke to me. He did the same evening. 'Your aunt has informed me,' he said, 'that you have been carrying on a correspondence with that man named Basil, who so very nearly imposed upon your father in Australia.' 'That man, uncle,' I said, 'is a gentleman, and he did not try to impose upon my father.' 'It will be to your advantage, my dear niece,' said Uncle Gilbert, very quietly, 'not to bandy words with me, nor say things which may interfere with your freedom and comfort. I am your guardian, and dispute it as you may, I stand in your father's place. To carry on a clandestine correspondence with a young man who is no way related to you is improper and unmaidenly. May I inquire if there is any likelihood of your correspondent favouring us with a visit?' 'I hope I shall see him one day,' I said. 'There is a chance of it then,' he said, 'and you can probably inform me when we may expect him.' 'No, I cannot tell you that,' I said. 'Your aunt believes,' he said, 'that you are not speaking the truth when you answer questions we put to you.' 'All my answers are truthful ones,' I said. 'You refuse to tell us,' he said, 'by what means this secret correspondence has been carried on.' 'I refuse to tell you,' I answered. 'I will not press you,' he said, 'but it will be my duty to discover what you are hiding from me. I shall succeed; I never undertake a task and fail. I always carry it out successfully to the end. In the meantime this correspondence must cease.' 'I will not promise,' I said, 'anything I do not mean to fulfil.' 'That is an honest admission,' he said, 'and I admire you for it. Nevertheless, the correspondence must cease, and if you persist in it I shall find a way to put a stop to it. Your reputation, your good name is at stake, and I must guard you from the consequences of your imprudence. My dear niece, I fear that you are bent upon opposing my wishes. It is an unequal battle between you and me--I tell you so frankly. You are under my control, and I intend to exercise my authority. We will now let the matter drop.' And it did drop there and then, and not another word has been spoken on the subject.
"There, Basil, I have told you everything as far as I can recollect it. I might be much worse off than I am. But it would be different if I did not have you to think of, if I did not feel that I have a dear, dear friend in the world, though he is so many thousands of miles away, and that some day I shall see him again. It is something to look forward to, and not a day passes that I do not think of it. You remember the books you used to tell me of on the plantation. I have read them all again and again, and they are all delightful. If the choice were mine, and you were to be near me, or with me as my dear father wished, I should dearly like to live the old life on the plantation; but there would be a difference, Basil; I could not live it now without books, and I do not see how anybody could. Often do I believe them to be real, and when I have laid down one which has made me laugh and cry I feel as if I had made new friends with whom I can rejoice and sympathise. There will be plenty to talk of when we meet, for that we shall meet some day I have not the least doubt. Only if you would grow rich, and come home soon, it would be so beautiful. Really and truly, Basil, I want a friend, a true friend to talk to about things. 'About what things, Annette?' perhaps you ask. How shall I explain? I will try--only you must remember that I am older than when we were together on the plantation, and that, as Uncle Gilbert implied, in a year or two I shall be a woman.
"Basil, when that time comes I want to have more freedom than I have now; I do not want to feel as if I were in chains; but how shall I be able to set myself free without a friend like you by my side? I do not think I am clever, but one can't help thinking of things. I understand that when my dear father died Uncle Gilbert was doing what he had a right to do in becoming my guardian and taking care of the money that was left. Emily says it is all mine, but I do not know. If it is, I should be glad to give half of it to Uncle Gilbert if he would agree to shake hands with me and bid me good-bye. We should be ever so much better friends apart from each other. I did venture timidly to speak to him once about my dear father's property, but he only said, 'Time enough, time enough; there is no need to trouble yourself about it; wait till you are a good many years older.' But, Basil, I want to be free before I am a good many years older, and how is that to be managed without your assistance? That is what I mean when I say I want a true friend to talk about things."
"I must leave off soon; Emily says the mail for Australia leaves to-day, and this letter has to be posted. I am writing it very early in the morning in my bedroom, before uncle and aunt are up; it is fortunate that they do not rise till late. But to be compelled to write in this way--do you understand now what I mean when I say that I do not want to feel as if I were in chains? Emily says she will manage to post the letter for me without uncle and aunt knowing, and I hope she will be able to. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to suppose that Emily and I can be a match for Uncle Gilbert, for I am certain he is watching me, though there is no appearance of it. The way he talks and the way he looks sometimes puts me in mind of a fox.
"Good-bye, Basil. Do not forget me, and if you do not hear from me for a long time do not think I have forgotten you. I can never, never, do that. Oh, how I wish time would pass quickly!
"Always yours affectionately,
"Annette."
When he finished reading Annette's letter Newman Chaytor looked at the date and saw that it had been written a month earlier than the letter from the lawyers. Examining the postmark on the envelope he saw that it could not have been posted till three weeks after it had been written, and that it bore a French stamp.
"The little puss was not in England," he thought, "when she contrived to get this letter popped into the post. That shows that she was right in supposing that Uncle Gilbert was watching her. Sly old fox, Uncle Gilbert. He means to keep tight hold of the pretty Annette. Saint George to the rescue! I feel quite chivalrous, and as if I were about to set forth to rescue maidens in distress. She is not quite devoid of sense, this Annette; it will be an entertainment to have a bout with Uncle Gilbert on her behalf. He saw very little of Basil, and if we resembled each other much less than we do it would be scarcely possible for him to suspect that another man was playing Basil's part in this rather remarkable drama. Time, circumstance, everything is in my favour--but I wish the next few weeks were over."
The harsh cawing of crows aroused him from his musings. Their grating voices were a fit accompaniment to his cruel thoughts. With a set, determined face, and with a heart in which dwelt no compunction for the deed he was about to do, he turned his face towards the spot where Basil, unsuspicious of the fate in store for him, was awaiting the comrade in whom he had put his trust.
In Australia, as in all new countries where treasure is discovered or where land is not monopolised by the few, townships spring up like mushrooms. Some grow apace, and become places of importance; others, in which the promise which brought them into existence is unfulfilled, languish and die out, to share the fate of the township of Gum Flat, in which Basil had met the man who played him false. Shortly after the events which have been recorded, a party of prospectors halted in a valley some eight miles from the valley where Basil and Newman Chaytor had been working, and began to look for gold. Their search was rewarded, the precious metal was found in paying quantities, and miners flocked to the valley and spread themselves over the adjacent country. The name of one of the early prospectors was Prince, and a township being swiftly formed, there was a certain fitness in dubbing it Princetown. All the adjuncts of a town which bade fair to be prosperous were soon gathered together. At the heels of the gold-diggers came the storekeepers, with tents in which to transact their business, and drayloads of goods wherewith to stock their stores. The tide, set going, flowed rapidly, and in less than a fortnight Princetown was a recognised centre of the rough civilisation which reigns in such-like places. Storekeepers, publicans, auctioneers, plied their trade from morning till night, and the gold, easily obtained, was as easily parted with by the busy bees, who lived only for the day and thought not of the morrow. The scene, from early morning till midnight, was one of remarkable animation, replete with strange features which a denizen of old-time civilisation, being set suddenly in its midst, would have gazed upon with astonishment. Here was a cattle-yard, in which horses for puddling machines and drays, and sheep and oxen for consumption, were being knocked down to the highest bidder during ten hours of the day. A large proportion of the horses purchased by the miners were jibbers and buckjumpers, and a very Babel of confusion reigned in the High Street as they strove to lead away their purchases. Around each little knot of mates who had bought a jibber or a buckjumper a number of idlers gathered, shouting with derision or approval when the horse or the man was triumphant. Exciting struggles between the two were witnessed; men jumped upon unsaddled horses and were thrown into the air amid the yells of the spectators, only to jump on again and renew the contest. Here an attempt was being made to pull along a jibber, whose forelegs were firmly planted before it, while twenty whips were being cracked at its heels to urge it on in the desired direction. A dozen yards off, up and out went the heels of a buckjumping brute, scattering the crowd, and for a moment victorious. Nobody was seriously hurt, bruises being reckoned of no account by these wanderers from the home-land, who for the first time in their lives were breathing the air of untrammelled freedom. It was wonderful to observe the effects of the newer life which was pulsing in the veins of the adventurers. At home they would have walked to and from their work, or idled in the streets because work was not to be obtained, listless and spiritless, mere commonplace mortals with pale faces, and often hopeless eyes. Here it was as if fresh, vigorous young blood had been infused into them. The careless, easy dress, the manly belt with its fossicking knife in sheath, the ragged and graceful billycock hat, the lissome movements of their limbs, the hair flowing upon their breasts, transformed them from drudges into something very like heroes. Seldom anywhere in the world can finer specimens of manhood be seen than on these new goldfields; it is impossible to withhold admiration of the manlier qualities which have sprung into life with the free labour in which their days are engaged. It is true that liberty often degenerates into lawless licence, but the vicious attributes of humanity must be taken into account, and they are as conspicuous in these new scenes, mayhap, as in the older grooves; and although crime and vice are met with, their proportion is no larger--indeed, it is not so large--than is made manifest by statistics in the older orders of civilisation. Next to the cattle sale-yard is a small store in which the wily gold-buyer is fleecing and joking with the miner who comes to change virgin gold into coined sovereigns or the ragged bank notes of Australian banks. Next to the gold-buyer's tent is a stationer who, for the modest sum of half-a-crown, will give a man an envelope, a sheet of notepaper, and pen and ink, with which he can write a letter to a distant friend. It was an amazing charge, but it was not uncommon during the first few weeks of life on a new goldfield, and the wonder of it was that men who toiled in the old countries for little more than half-a-crown a day slapped down the coin without a murmur against the extortion. Next to the stationer was a canvas hotel, wherein thimblefuls of brandy and whiskey were retailed at a shilling the nobbler, and Bass's pale ale at two shillings the pint bottle. Then clothes stores, provision stores, general stores, dancing and billiard saloons, branches of great banks, with flags waving over their fronts, and all driving a roaring trade. The joyousness of prosperity was apparent in every animate sign that met the view, and a rollicking freedom of manner was established, very much as if it were an order of freemasonry which made all men brothers. Here was a man who in England never had three sovereigns to "bless himself with" (a favourite saying, which has its meaning) calling upon every person in sight--strangers to him, every man Jack of them--to come and drink at his expense at the usual shilling a thimbleful, throwing to the bartender a dirty banknote, and pocketing the change without condescending to count it. At present the circulation was confined to bank notes, sovereigns and silver money. Coppers were conspicuous by their absence, and, falling into miners' hands, would very likely be pitched away with scorn. The lowest price for anything was sixpence, whether it was a packet of pins or a yard of tape--a very paradise for haberdashers with their eternal three farthings. The man who was standing treat all round, and the more the merrier, had been a dockyard labourer in London, a grovelling grub, who at the end of the week had not twopence to spare, and probably would have been glad to accept that much charity from the hands of the kindly-hearted. In Princetown he was a lord, and just now seemed bent upon getting as drunk as one. He had struck a new lead, and on this day had washed out more than he would have received for two years' labour at home. Small wonder that his head was turned; small wonder for his belief that he was in possession of a Midas mine of wealth which would prove inexhaustible. Thus in varied form ran the story of these newly-opened goldfields with their delirious excitements and golden hopes. A new era had dawned upon mankind, and bone and muscle were the valuable commodities. So believed the miners, the kings of the land; the bush roads teemed with them, and a tramp of a hundred miles was thought nothing of. Their swags on their backs, they marched through bush and forest, and lit their camp fires at night, and sat round the blazing logs, smoking, singing, and telling bush yarns until, healthfully tired out with their day's labour, they wrapped themselves in their blankets and slept soundly with the stars shining on them. Up they rose in the morning, as merry as Robin Hood's men, and drawing water from the creek in which they washed, made their tea and baked their "damper," then shouldered their swags again, and resumed their cheerful march. Soldiers of civilisation they, opening up a new country in which fortunes were made and work honestly paid for. No room for that pestilential brood, the hydra-headed middleman, who pays the producer a shilling for his wares, and, passing it on from hand to hand delivers it to the consumer at six times its proper value. It is this multiplying process which makes life so hard to hundreds of thousands in the overcrowded countries of the old-world.
Some passing features of the sudden creation of Princetown have been given, but one remains to be introduced. Exactly twelve days from the discovery of gold in the valley, an ancient horse of lean proportions, dragging a crazy old waggon behind it, halted in the High Street in the early part of the day. By the side of the tired animal was a pale-faced man, who never once used his worn-out whip, but gave kindly words to his steed in the place of lashes. He was poorly dressed and looked wan and anxious. When he halted there descended from the waggon a woman as pale-faced and anxious as himself and a little girl brimming over with life and spirits. The woman was his wife, the little girl his daughter. The frontages to the most desirable allotments had been pegged out a long way north and south, and there were speculators who had no intention of occupying those allotments themselves, but were prepared to sell their rights to newcomers. After a few inquiries and some shrewd examination of the allotments, the man bargained for one in a suitable position, and became its owner. Then from the waggon was taken a tent of stout canvas, and while the old horse ate its corn and bent its head to have its nose stroked by the little girl, the man and woman set to work to build their habitation. In the course of the afternoon this was done, and then, after anal frescorepast, the waggon was unloaded of its contents. This process aroused the curiosity of the loungers in High Street, Princetown, the goods being of an unusual character. Mysterious looking articles were taken out of the waggon and conveyed with great care into the tent, and presently one onlooker, better informed than his comrades, cried:
"Why, it's a printing-office!"
A printing-office it was, of the most modest description, but still, a printing-office; that engine of enlightenment without which the wheels of civilisation would cease to revolve. The word was passed round, the news spread, and brought other contingents of spectators, and the canvas tent became a temple, and the pale-faced man a man of mark. Inside the temple the woman was arranging the type and cases, putting up without assistance two single frames and a double one; outside the man was answering, or endeavouring to answer, the eager questions asked of him, extracting at the same time, for his own behoof, such scraps of information as would prove useful to him. Pale as was his face, and anxious as was the look in his eyes, he was a man of energy and resource.
"Mates," he cried, "look out to-morrow morning for the first number of thePrincetown Argus. Who'll subscribe?"
"I will," and "I will," answered a dozen voices, and the enterprising printer, who had staked his all on the venture, was immediately engaged in receiving subscriptions for his newspaper, and entering the names in a memorandum book. His face became flushed, the anxious look fled from his eyes; in less than half an hour he had thirty pounds in his pockets.
"Go and get me some news," he said, addressing his audience generally. "Never mind what it is, I'll put it into shape."
"William," cried the woman from the tent, "you must come and help me to put up the press."
While the two were thus engaged, a good-natured fellow in the open took upon himself the task of receiving additional subscribers and when the press was set up, and the master printer made his appearance again, a matter of twenty pounds was handed to him by his self-constituted lieutenant.
"Fifty pounds," whispered the adventurer to his wife. "A good start."
She nodded, beaming, and proceeded with her work, assisted by her husband. He had announced the initial number of thePrincetown Argusfor the next morning, and out it would have to come. This would necessitate their stopping up all night, but what did the matter? They were establishing a property, and, were already regarded as perhaps the most important arrival in the new township. In the middle of their work a visitor presented himself. The printer was spreading ink upon the ink table and getting his roller in order, when his visitor opened up a conversation.
"ThePrincetown Argus, eh?"
"Yes."
"A good move. The first number to-morrow morning?"
"Yes."
"Can it be done?"
"Oh, yes," said the printer confidently. "When I say done, done it is."
"That's your sort. How many pages?"
"Two. The second number four."
"What do you ask for the whole of the front page in the first four numbers? I've a mind to advertise."
The proposal staggered the printer, but he did not show it; the woman pricked up her ears.
"A hundred pounds," replied the printer, amazed at his own boldness.
The visitor nodded, as if a hundred pounds for an advertisement were an every-day occurrence with him.
"With the option," he said, "of the next four numbers at the same price."
"You can have the option," said the printer, who could not yet be called a newspaper proprietor, because his journal was in embryo.
"Have you got some bold type? Big letters?"
"Yes. My plant is small at present, but I can do job printing as well as newspaper work. That's what I'm here for. I shall be getting new type sent out in a week or two."
"Show me 'John Jones' in big letters."
It was done almost instantaneously, and the visitor gazed at the name approvingly. It was his own.
"Now, underneath, 'Beehive Stores.'"
The letters were put together, and the printer said, "That will look well, right across the page."
John Jones nodded again. "Now, underneath that, 'The Beehive, the Beehive, The Only Beehive. John Jones John Jones, The only John Jones. Look out for the Flag, Painted by the Finest Artist of the Age.'"
"Go slow," said the printer. "All right, I'm up to you."
"Buy everything you Want," proceeded John Jones, watching the nimble fingers with admiration, "'at the only Beehive, of the only John Jones. Groceries, Provisions, Clothing of every description, Picks and Shovels, Powder and Fuse, Candles, Tubs and Dishes, Crockery, Bottled Ale and Stout, Everything of the Very Best. The highest price given for Gold. Come One, Come All. The Only Beehive. The Only John Jones. The Flag that's Braved a Thousand Years the Battle and the Breeze. Good luck to all.' There, that's the advertisement. Spread it out, you know. Here's the hundred pounds. You might give me a paragraph."
"I'll do that," said the printer. "Something in this style: 'We have much pleasure in directing our readers' attention to the advertisement of out enterprising townsman, John Jones, the Beehive Stores, at whose emporium gold-diggers and others will find the finest stock of goods,' &c., &c., &c. Will that do?"
"Capitally," said John Jones. "Put me down as a subscriber." And off went the enterprising storekeeper, satisfied with his outlay and that it would bring him a good return. Both he and William Simmons, the founder ofThe Princetown Argus, are types. It is opportunity that makes the man.
The midnight oil was burned in the new printing-office until the sun rose next morning. Not a wink of sleep did William Simmons or his wife have; she was almost as expert a compositor as her husband, and she is presented to the reader standing before her case, composing-stick in hand, picking up stamps, as a woman worthy of the highest admiration. When she paused in her work it was to have a peep at her little girl, who was sleeping soundly, and to stoop and give her darling a kiss. William Simmons was the busiest of men the whole of the time, in and out of the tent, running here and there to pick up scraps, of information for paragraphs and short articles, and setting up his leading article, introducingThe Princetown Argusto the world, literally "out of his head," for he did not write it first and put it in type afterwards, but performed the feat, of which few compositors are capable, that of making his thoughts take the place of "copy." At ten o'clock in the morning the first copy of the newspaper was produced, William Simmons being the pressman and Mrs. Simmons the roller boy. It is a curiosity in its way, and readers at the British Museum should look it up. There was a great demand for copies, and Simmons and his wife did their best to supply it, but they could not hold out longer than twelve o'clock, at which hour they shut up shop, and, throwing themselves upon some blankets on the ground, enjoyed the repose which they had so worthily earned. Before they awoke something took place which created a great stir in the township, and news of it was conveyed to the office ofThe Princetown Argus. Aroused from their sleep, the printer and his wife were up and astir again, and getting his material together, William Simmons, on the following day, issued an "extra edition" of his paper, the principal item of which is given in the next chapter.
"A sad discovery" (wrote the editor and proprietor ofThe Princetown Argus) "was yesterday made on a spot some dozen miles from Princetown, which we hasten to place before our readers in the shape of an extra edition of our journal, the success of the first number of which, we are happy to say, has exceeded our most glowing anticipations. We ask the inhabitants of Princetown to accept the issue of this our first extra edition as a guarantee of the spirit with which we intend to conduct the newspaper which will represent their interests. The facts of the discovery we refer to are as follows:
"At the distance we have named from Princetown runs the Plenteous river, towards which the eyes of our enterprising miners have been already turned as the source from which, when our creeks run dry, we shall have to obtain our water supply. The party of miners who have formed themselves into a company for the purpose of sluicing a portion of the ground in Fairman's Flat, deputed two of their number, Joseph Porter and Steve Fairfax to make an inspection of the lay of the land between Plenteous River and Fairman's Flat, to decide upon the feasibility of cutting a water race, and upon the best means of carrying out the design. The ground they hold has been proved to be highly auriferous, and there is no doubt that rich washings-out will reward their enterprise. It was not to be expected that they would make their examination without prospecting the ground here and there, and the reports they have brought in seem to establish the fact that the whole of the country between Princetown and the Plenteous River constitutes one vast goldfield. The future of our township is assured, and within a short time its position will be second to none in all Australia. The report of Porter and Fairfax is also highly favourable to the contemplated water race, and the work will be commenced at once. It is calculated that there are already six thousand miners in Princetown. We have room for five times six thousand, and we extend the hand of welcome to our new comrades.
"Upon the arrival of Porter and Fairfax at the Plenteous River they naturally concluded they were the first on the ground, no accounts of any gold workings thereabouts having been published in any of the Australian journals. They soon discovered their error. Work had been done on the banks of the river, as was shown by the heaps of tailings in different places, and on one of the ranges sloping upwards from the banks a shaft had been sunk. At no great distance from the shaft a small tent was set up, and the two men proceeded to it for the purpose of making inquiries. Although the tent presented evidences of having been quite recently occupied, no person was visible, and they came to the conclusion that its owner was at work in another direction and would return at the close of day. Their curiosity induced them to examine the shaft which had been sunk on the range, and this examination led to an important result. There was no windlass over the shaft, but a rope securely fastened at the top hung down the mouth. They shook the rope, and ascertained that it hung loose. To their repeated calls down the shaft they received no reply, and they pulled up the rope. To their surprise there were not more than twelve feet of rope hanging down, whereas the stuff that had been hauled up indicated a depth of some forty or fifty feet. A closer examination of the rope showed that it had been broken at a part where it had got frayed and unable to bear a heavy weight. Being provided with a considerable length of rope the men resolved to descend the shaft and ascertain whether an accident had occurred. Having made their rope fast, Fairfax descended, and reaching the bottom was horrified to discover a man lying there senseless and apparently dead. As little time as possible was lost in getting him to the top, a work of considerable difficulty and danger, but it was accomplished safely after great labour. Then came the task of ascertaining whether the man was dead. He was not; but although he exhibited signs of life the injuries he received were of such a nature that they feared there was little hope for him. It was impossible for Fairfax and Porter to convey him to Princetown without a horse and cart, and Fairfax hurried back to the township to obtain what was necessary, while Porter remained at the Plenteous River to nurse the injured man. He has been brought here, and is now being well looked after. The latest reports of him are more favourable, and hopes are entertained that his life may be saved. He has not yet, however, recovered consciousness, and nothing is known as to his name. Neither is anything absolutely precise known of the circumstances of the accident, except that it was caused by the breaking of the rope, a portion of which was found at the bottom of the shaft, tightly clenched in the stranger's hand.
"There is a certain element of mystery in the affair, and we shall briefly allude to one or two points which seem to have a bearing upon it.
"Fairfax and Porter, to whose timely arrival at Plenteous River the stranger undoubtedly owes his life, if it is spared, are of the opinion that there were two men working in the shaft and living together in the tent. Upon the former point they may be mistaken, for the rope was so fixed that a man working by himself could ascend and descend the shaft with comparative ease, although the labour of filling each bucket of stuff below and then ascending to the top to draw it up, would have been excessive. But upon the latter point there can be no doubt, for the reason that the tent contained two beds, both of which must have been lain upon within the last week or two. Inferring that thereweretwo men working in the shaft, is it possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at the top of the shaft made tracks from the place and left his mate to a cruel and lingering death? This is a mere theory, and we present it for what it is worth. An opinion has been expressed that the rope has been tampered with, and that it did not break from natural wear and tear. If so, it strengthens the theory we have presented. Nothing was found in the pockets of the injured man which could lead to his identity, nor was any gold found upon his person or in the tent. Thus, for the present, the affair is wrapt in mystery."
In the next week's number of thePrincetown Argusthe incident was again referred to in a leading article, in which a number of other matters found mention:
"The man who was found at the bottom of a shaft on a range at the Plenteous River and was brought to Princetown to have his injuries attended to, is now conscious and in a fair way of recovery. But, whether from a set purpose or from the circumstance that his mental powers have been impaired from the injuries he received, he is singularly reticent about the affair. He has volunteered no information, and his answers to questions addressed to him throw no light upon the mystery. It is expected that several weeks will elapse before he can recover his strength. Meanwhile we have to record that gold has been found in paying quantities in the banks of the river and in the adjacent ranges, and it is calculated that there are already five hundred men at work there. Gold is also being discovered in various parts of the country between Princetown and the river, and a great many claims are being profitably worked. The rush of gold-diggers to Princetown continues, and men are pouring in every day. Yesterday the gold escort took down 4,300 ounces; it is expected that this quantity will be doubled next week. Our enterprising townsman, Mr. John Jones, of the famous Beehive Stores, is having a wooden building erected in which his extensive business will in future be transacted. We direct the attention of our readers to Mr. Jones' advertisement on our front page. The enterprising proprietor of the Royal Hotel has determined to construct a movable theatre, also of wood, which will be put up every evening in the cattle sale-yards adjoining his hotel when the sales of the day are over, and taken down after every performance to allow of the sales being resumed the next morning. This is a novel idea, and will be crowned with success. A first-class company is on its way to Princetown, and it is announced that the first performance will be given in a fortnight. Fuller particulars of these matters will be found in other columns. Our readers will observe that we have doubled the size of thePrincetown Argus, which now consists of four pages. We have ordered an entire new plant, and upon its arrival shall still further enlarge our paper. Our motto is Onward."
It will be seen from these extracts that Newman Chaytor had carried out his cruel scheme to what he believed and hoped would be the end of the comrade he had plotted against and betrayed. But what man proposes sometimes fails in its purpose, and it was so in this instance. The merciful arrival of the two gold-diggers upon the scene saved Basil's life.
This last act of Chaytor's was easily accomplished. While Basil slept he crawled to the shaft, and by the moon's light weakened the strands of the rope some ten feet down. Then he crawled back to his bed, and tossed to and fro till the dawn of day.
"We'll work the claim till the end of the week," he said to Basil over breakfast, "and if it turns out no better, we will try the banks of the river again."
"Very well," said Basil. "I am truly sorry I don't bring you better luck, but we have something to go on with, at all events."
They walked to the shaft together, and Basil prepared to descend. Grasping the rope, he looked up at Chaytor, and Chaytor smiled at him. He responded with a cheerful look, for although the hopes in which he had indulged of returning to England with a fortune were destroyed, he had not abandoned his wish to leave the colony. He was sick of the life he was leading, and he yearned for a closer human sympathy. His share of the gold they had obtained would be close upon five hundred pounds--that was something; it would enable him to take passage home, to find Annette perhaps, to see and speak with her and renew the old bond; and if the worst happened, if he could not find Annette, or found her only to learn that the woman was different from the child, he could come back to Australia and live out his life there.
"Don't lose heart," he said to Chaytor; "we may strike the vein again this week. There's a bright future before you, I am certain."
"I half believe so myself," said Chaytor; "hoping against hope, you know." And thought, "Will he never go down?"
Basil gave one upward look at the floating clouds and descended. Chaytor bent over the mouth of the shaft, looked down, and listened.
"Is the rope firm?" Basil cried out.
"Quite firm," said Chaytor. Then there came a terrified scream, and the sound of a heavy body falling. Then--silence.
Chaytor, with white face and lips tightly set, still bent over the mouth of the shaft, still looked down the dark depths, still listened. Not a sound--not even a groan.
"It is done," he muttered.
He pulled up the severed rope, and thought that it might have happened without his intervention. He had read of a parallel instance, and of the death of a miner in consequence.
"It was an accident," he said, "as this is. The rope would have given way without my touching it. Such things occur all over the world. Look at the colliery accidents at home--hundreds of men are killed in them, here there is only one."
These thoughts were not prompted by compunction; he simply desired to shift the responsibility from his own shoulders. It was a miserable subterfuge, and did not succeed. In the first flush of his crime its shadow haunted him.
He let the rope fall from his hand down the shaft. "I could not go to him," he said, "if I wanted. How quiet he is!"
A mad impulse seized him.
"Basil Basil!" he cried in his loudest tone; and as no reply reached him, he said, looking around, "Well, then, is it my fault that he does not answer me?"
He paced to and fro, a dozen steps this way, a dozen that, counting his steps. Fifty times at least he did this, always with the intention of going to the tent or the river, and always being drawn back to the mouth of the shaft, over which he hung and lingered. It possessed a horrible fascination for him.
"Iwillgo this time," he said, but he could not. He remained an hour--the longest hour in his life. At length he went down to the river, and as he gazed upon it thought, "Men die by drowning. What does it matter the kind of death? Death is death: it is always the same."
The interminable hours lagged on till night came. He sat in the tent weighing the gold and getting ready for flight. Once in Sydney he would take the first ship for England. The flickering candle cast monstrous shadows upon the walls and ceiling, and in his nervous state he shrank shudderingly from them, and strove to ward them off, as though they were living forms hovering about him with fell intent. The silence appalled him; he would have given gold for the piping of a little bird.
Thus passed the miserable night, and in the morning he visited the shaft again. The same awful stillness reigned.
"It is all over," he said. "Newman Chaytor is dead; I, Basil Whittingham, live. No one will ever know. Now for England!"